


The Devil You Know

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Caretaking, Coming Untouched, Consent Issues, Crying During Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, First Time, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Daddy Kink, M/M, Manipulative Peter, Marking, Massage, POV Alternating, Possessive Peter, Post-Season/Series 02, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sharing a Bed, Under-negotiated Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5669548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He’s so tired, in every way it’s possible to <b>be</b> tired. He tried going for a walk tonight to prevent a panic attack, and ended up being rescued, dazed and bleeding, by Peter Hale. There are so many things wrong with that sentence he doesn’t even know where to start. Panic attacks. Being stuck inside his brain sucking so hard he needed to be alone and moving. The sense of relief that came with crashing into Peter. </i><br/> <br/><i>He shouldn’t be okay with this. He didn’t give Peter permission to sleep in his bed. His dad will be home soon. Peter’s more than a decade older than him. Peter can’t be trusted. </i></p><p>  <i>But he’s tired, and this feels so, so good. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Can't Run Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> As always: Blame BelleAmante and DenaCeleste. They enabled and cheered this on like you would not believe. 
> 
> But please note: this piece is problematic. There's going to be a lot of Not Okay, so mind the tags (they will update as the story does) and watch out for anything triggery. Take care of yourselves.

 

Stiles never wanted to want Peter. He tried not to. Tried not to admire how far he'd go to protect his pack—or, failing that, to avenge them. Tried not to enjoy their sarcastic banter, or the way Peter could follow his leaps of logic and intuition in a way that even Scott couldn't, sometimes. Tried not to appreciate the way Peter's eyes never looked at him with judgement or pity, the way Peter never treated him like he was fragile. He tried not to feel bolstered by the fact that Peter flirted outrageously with him, but never toyed with his feelings—under every innuendo-laden come on lay a serious offer. He tried not to feel validated, reassured by the fact that Peter never ignored him—or let him get away with trying to feed the older Hale the same crock of bullshit he fed everyone else.

He tried.

But the day he failed, he thought that maybe it was inevitable.

It starts with a monster—because that’s how everything always starts in Beacon fucking Hills—when Stiles is trying to clear his head. He knows better than to go wandering around the Preserve after dark, but he’d thought he would be safe with the last few hours of feeble daylight if he stuck to the edges. No such luck.

He finds himself bolting, trying to outrun whatever the hell is hot on his heels. The thing looks like a distant cousin of the velociraptor—if it was on crack. It had managed to get a hit in, and Stiles’s breathing is more ragged from the fiery pain gouging his shoulder than from running his ass off. He’s trying to think, figure out what he can use to get away, where he can go, because Scott isn’t answering his phone, and that means Stiles—

—is going to run full-tilt into a tree because he’s thinking instead of paying attention.

Although trees don’t usually grip back. Or smell sexy and edible.

Trembling and soaked—blood, sweat, he doesn’t know and doesn’t want to—Stiles looks and sees Peter. He sags against the werewolf. Peter frowns and says something, but Stiles can’t hear it over the pounding of the blood in his ears. “Chasing me. Dinosaur thing,” he gasps out, taking a wild guess at what it is Peter wants to know.

Peter’s attention turns then, away from him and towards . . . the thing that had been chasing him. Stiles tries to pull away, tries to run again, but Peter’s grip holds firm. Peter shifts, cups clawed hands over Stiles’s ears, and gives a vicious snarl. It isn’t as pants-shittingly loud as an Alpha’s roar, but it’s still the sound of an apex predator. The raptor-thing makes this weird chirruping noise before turning tail and running.

Stiles slumps against Peter, and just breathes. Peter lets him, skating gentle fingertips up and down his back until he isn’t shaking anymore.

Getting back home is fuzzy. Stiles can’t remember all of it, and what he does remember makes him think that he probably doesn’t want to. The next thing he registers with absolute clarity is Peter’s open palm connecting with his face. Hard.

“Ow! Th’ f’ck ‘z tha’ for?”

“I need you to stay with me, Stiles. I don’t know how much blood you’ve lost, and I need you to tell me if you suffered any other injuries.” Peter’s face is very close to his face. It’s distracting.

“Y’r distr’ctin’.”

“ _Injuries_ , Stiles.”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Jussa shoul’er.”

Peter listens carefully before nodding. He ducks out of sight, but is back before Stiles can wonder where he went. He reappears with a very familiar first aid kit. Which. That means they’re in the bathroom. Stiles’s bathroom. When did Peter get him into his own bathroom?

Before he can try to follow the memory-breadcrumb trail, Peter’s distracting him again. By slicing his shirt off. Which is not okay. Stiles is not built for random shirtlessness. That domain belongs to werewolves. His domain is more “in the right light, with someone who already knows he’s awesome”. Peter’s hands on his chest don’t change that. Though they do feel nice. Especially with the warm.

He spares a moment to question whether he might be a little endorphin-drunk. He thinks so. As well as very, very unmedicated. But surprisingly non-hurty. He wonders why that is. From what he recalls of the last hour, he should be feeling _plenty_ hurty right about now. His view is pretty obstructed—there’s nothing much but bathroom-white in his peripheral vision, and a whole lot of Peter-hair right in front of him.

Then it occurs to him to wonder why he’s seeing hair instead of eyebrow sass. He tries to lean back to get a better look, but Peter stops him with a curt, “Hold still,” and a tight grip on his arm. His left arm. It was his left shoulder that the crack-raptor tore open.

Carefully, without moving the rest of his body, Stiles turns his head to glance at his shoulder. He mostly sees blood, but two things stand out as important: first, that the hand on his arm has black veins, which accounted for the lack of hurty, and second, that Peter’s other hand is sewing the deepest of the cracktor gashes shut.

His stomach lurches violently at the sight of the needle being pulled through his skin. Peter’s hands are deft as he stitches carefully, and it’s horrifying to watch but only feel as a slight tugging sensation. Despite his growing nausea he can’t tear his eyes away until Peter says, “I _will_ kill you if you throw up on me,” without pausing to look at him.

Stiles tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. It doesn’t really help. He still knows that Peter’s jabbing a needle through his flesh, can still _feel_ it in an abstract way even if he can’t feel the pain of it.

Which. Speaking of. “Thanks.”

“For?” Peter still doesn’t look up or pause what he’s doing. Is that rude of him? It’s Peter, so rude is his default setting, but Stiles isn’t going to argue this time. Not when it means the needlesome part of tonight can be over with faster.

“For takin’ the pain.” Stiles blinks slowly. He is so, so tired. Should he be worried about shock? Probably. But he’s the special kind of exhausted, and there’s a convenient werewolf nearby to call the ambulance, so.

“I need you with me for a little bit longer, Stiles.” Peter’s voice breaks through his mental meanderings, and it takes a moment before it sinks in that he’s never heard that tone from Peter before. He looks at the werewolf, and realizes that he’d closed his eyes.

He’s not sure if he’s glad he opened them, with Peter so close. There are two unnaturally hot hands cupping both sides of his neck, and Peter’s staring at him in a very disconcerting way. Like, dude’s hyper-focussed on Stiles, but isn’t actually seeing him?

It gets really weird really fast, so he mumble-asks, “What’re you doin’?”

“Checking you for signs of hypovolemic shock,” Peter replies absently, still looking-but-not-seeing him.

And, well. That’s probably a good thing. “Verdict?”

“You’re pale but not blue, smell of lingering terror but no fresh anxiety, and while you’re still trembling a little, I’m fairly certain that’s just the adrenaline. You’re not sweating, and your breathing is a little wheezy, but fairly normal. Those are all good signs.”

Stiles hears a ‘but’ in there. “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

At the return of the snark, Peter looks him in the eye. His expression is tight, calculating. “ _But_ your pulse is fast, even for you, and a little weaker than I’d like.”

Stiles closes his eyes, and tries to assess how he feels now that Peter’s not sucking his pain like it’s a milkshake. He feels pretty shitty, but he thinks he’s felt worse. A little woozy, maybe. “I don’ _feel_ too bad.”

Peter gives him another one of those considering looks. “What day of the week is it?”

“It was Wednesday when I lef’, but I dunno how much time’s gone by, so it might be Thurs’ay now.” All he wants is sleep.

“What’s your full name?”

Stiles opens his mouth, about to answer automatically with the monstrosity that’s on his birth certificate, but catches himself. He glares at Peter. “Nice try.”

There’s something unusual about Peter’s smirk, something behind it that Stiles can’t identify. His voice is gentle when he says, “I want you to stand up for me, so we can finish cleaning you up.” It’s freaky. But kind of nice? Usually he gets yelled at for being reckless after he gets hurt, but Peter hasn’t done any yelling since they got out of the Preserve.

Peter helps him up off the floor, and he groans, clutching the counter for support. He can see Peter hovering behind him in the mirror, hands close but not touching. “Any dizziness or light-headedness?” he asks. Stiles slowly shakes his head no. He can feel his muscles protesting. His legs don’t want to hold him up. “Stiles, do you feel like you’re going to faint?”

He snorts. “No, nope, I’m no’ gonna do that. I’ve already done the damsel in distress thing t’night,” he grunts.

Peter nods. “You should be fine, then, but let me know if any of that changes.”

And then Peter is boxing him in, sliding his hands under Stiles’s arms to get to the taps and _wow_ , werewolves put out a lot of body heat. They’re not even touching, but Stiles can feel how hot the air is in the scant space between Peter’s chest and his bare back. When Peter wraps an arm around his waist, bringing their bodies flush, he gives a silent thank you to whatever might be listening that there’s not enough blood in his body to spare any for his dick.

He watches their reflection, feeling like he's looking into an alternate reality. There are seven neat stitches holding the deepest wound closed. Seven places where Peter entered his body, and exited leaving Stiles the better for his having been there. Even stranger, Peter runs a soapy washcloth over his chest and stomach, before rinsing it out to wipe away the worst of the blood and grime. He repeats the process with Stiles’s arms, sides, back, and he’s . . . clinical is the wrong word. This is anything but clinical. It’s also nothing like the bad-touch Stiles would have expected if Peter ever got him alone and half-naked.

When Peter turns him, propping him against the bathroom counter to carefully wash the evidence of the last few hours from his face, Stiles thinks he might have found the word, as outrageously un-Peter as it might seem. When Peter starts scrubbing away the blood spattered at his neck and hairline, he knows. Compassionate. That’s the only word for how Peter’s behaving right now.

He’s broken from that frankly bizarre thought by a twinging pain in his shoulder. Peter’s slathering antibiotic ointment over the claw-marks, and, as soon as he’s done, carefully covers it with gauze and tape. When he pulls back, he looks at Stiles. “Are you a restless sleeper?”

Stiles snorts. “Have you met me?”

Peter ducks down to the first aid kit, and pulls out an ace bandage. He positions Stiles’s left arm, and then binds his arm and torso in such a way that Stiles shouldn’t pull his stitches in his sleep. Stiles lets his eyes fall shut. “Too tight?”

Stiles squirms a little. Shakes his head. He doesn’t open his eyes. Not until Peter skates his fingertips across Stiles’s cheek. “Come on, Stiles. Let’s get you to bed.”

He lets Peter half-carry him to his bedroom, and changes into the pajama pants Peter hands him after the werewolf ducks out. By the time he comes back, Stiles is easing himself under the covers, and Peter is handing him a glass of juice. “Drink that, and then you can sleep. I’ll be right back.

Stiles sips at it, too tired to argue. He has the niggling feeling that it’s a good idea anyway. He drains the glass, and then collapses against his pillows.

He’s asleep before Peter gets back.

***

 

John isn’t particularly quiet when he gets home. It’s one in the morning, and as much as he hopes his son is asleep by now, he knows better. There have been too many nights where Stiles has been up into the small hours for him to think any differently.

So he’s a little surprised when he gets upstairs and sees that his son’s bedroom light is off. And then he worries that Stiles might not be home at all. He didn’t get a text about a pack meeting or sleepover at Scott’s, but werewolves. Werewolves have become A Thing, as Stiles would say, and might be keeping his boy away from his bed, where he _should_ be at one o’clock in the morning.

He taps gently at the door before opening it. He doesn’t expect what he sees. For starters, Stiles is home, and asleep. But most of John’s shock is being claimed by the fact that Peter Hale, spree killer, ex-Alpha, and undead thirty-something werewolf, is in bed with his son, his back against the headboard and Stiles’s face pressed to his thigh.

John takes a minute to do one of those breathing exercises the therapist recommended for Stiles’s panic attacks, but which are also surprisingly helpful for Sheriffs who need help not shooting the _thirty-something werewolf in bed with his son_.

Just before John whisper-shouts at said werewolf to get out of his house, Hale nods at him. His eyes glitter strangely in the dark, and John wonders if that’s a werewolf thing, or just a creepy quirk unique to this werewolf. He resolves to ask Stiles later, because Hale is beckoning him closer.

And, once John is close enough, he understands why. He does the breathing thing again.

Because Peter is gesturing to a bandage on Stiles’s shoulder, dragging three hooked fingers through the air over it. Claw marks. Three of them. He mouths “How bad?” only mildly terrified of the answer. Stiles is in his own bed and breathing easy, so it _can’t_ be too bad. He’s not at the hospital, or being patched up by the vet. He’s just . . .

Being watched over by a werewolf.

“Seven stitches,” Hale whispers, and _Jesus Christ_ , his baby needed stitches? Before he can ask—who stitched his boy back together, how Stiles handled the needle, what the hell happened that his son needed _seven stitches_ —Hale’s speaking again. “Get some sleep, Sheriff. I’ll stay with him, and tell you everything you want to know in the morning.”

He squints at Hale. He’s not happy about it, but. He’s exhausted, and Stiles’s injuries aren’t going anywhere—and neither is Hale, apparently. It’s not a thought that should reassure him. He doesn’t _want_ to be reassured by it.

But he can’t help feeling grateful that _someone_ is taking care of his kid. Even if he would greatly prefer Chris or Melissa—parents who know what it feels like to have a child ass-deep in the supernatural—be that someone. Hell, Scott or Lydia or Allison would be great. But if Peter Hale is the one Stiles ended up with, at least he’s got someone.

John very carefully doesn’t think about why everyone else seems content to leave Stiles to fend for himself, or the upsides to having Hale watch over his son. He saves it for that talk they’re going to have in the morning.

 

***

 

When Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night, he’s not sure what time it is. He’s been asleep long enough to feel disoriented and groggy, though, which is why it takes a moment to register Peter.

Peter is in his bed. He’s curled up against Peter Hale’s chest, his face tucked into the curve where Peter’s neck meets his shoulder. He thinks this might be the most bizarre thing that’s ever happened to him—and, given his Life with Werewolves, that’s saying something. He doesn’t realize Peter’s awake until hands start stroking—soft enough to soothe, but firm enough not to tickle—up and down his back, over his ribs, across his arms, his neck, the back of his head.

He’s so tired, in every way it’s possible to _be_ tired. He tried going for a walk tonight to prevent a panic attack, and ended up being rescued, dazed and bleeding, by Peter Hale. There are so many things wrong with that sentence he doesn’t even know where to start. Panic attacks. Being stuck inside his brain sucking so hard he needed to be alone and moving. The sense of relief that came with crashing into Peter.

He shouldn’t be okay with this. He didn’t give Peter permission to sleep in his bed. His dad will be home soon. Peter’s more than a decade older than him. Peter can’t be trusted.

But he’s tired, and this feels so, so good. It’s unbelievably easy to lie there and let Peter learn him by touch in the dark, to accept the comfort being offered. He can’t find it in him to care what it’ll cost him later, even though he knows it will. But, better the devil you know, right?

So he lets out a quiet sigh, his body going pliant and trusting under Peter’s hands. He drifts back to sleep, lulled by the heartbeat tapping gently against his cheek.

 


	2. Take My Life in You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The anger sizzling in his gut is worsened by the way Stiles allows him to prop up the boy’s legs and tuck him into bed, already half-asleep. Peter will be having words with the pack at the meeting tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, my lovelies! You're getting the chapter bright and early because _someone_ didn't really do the sleeping thing last night. 
> 
> Thanks/blame go to DenaCeleste and BelleAmante for beta reading, pre-reading, and cheerleading.
> 
> Please mind the updated tags--nothing _too_ troubling is happening here, but you all know yourselves and your limits.

 

In the morning, Stiles stumbles out of bed with even less grace than usual. Everything hurts. He feels like a creaky old man as he hobbles down the stairs, clinging to the bannister with his good arm. He hates feeling this decrepit.

But the godawful slowness means he’s able to eavesdrop a little, so he isn’t completely gobsmacked when he gets to the kitchen.

“—can’t say I’m happy it’s you, but—“

“—but you _are_ glad someone finally decided to take care of your son. I understand, Sheriff.”

“John, please. I came home to find my son in bed with the werewolf that saved his life, and I’ve already told you what’ll happen to you if you step out of line, so—”

“Hey,” Stiles rasps. He’s only announcing his presence to one person, but it’s the one who really matters, so. “Has hell frozen over?”

His dad glares at him. It’s the I-raised-you-better-than-this glare. Peter just snorts. “You’re still being a smartass, so signs point to no.”

“And yet, you’re in my kitchen.” Stiles carefully lowers himself into a chair. Then he realizes what Peter’s doing. “Are you _cooking_?”

“That is generally what heating food on the stovetop is called, yes.” Peter turns his head to flash a smarmy grin.

Stiles looks at his dad. His dad will make all of this make sense. “Look, kid, I hate to say it, but you need a keeper. You’re running yourself ragged, what with school and trying to police my diet and—”

“—well, _someone_ has to, if you’re not going to eat yourself into a heart attack—”

“—and playing den mother to emotionally stunted and-or teenage werewolves,” John continues talking right over his son. Which, rude. “Stiles, in some ways, you got the best _and_ worst of me and your mother. She was hell-bent on taking care of everyone around her, too.” He pauses, and neither of them look at each other. Peter continues cooking and pretending he’s not there. “But you’re like me. Stubborn. Too stubborn to accept the help you need, sometimes.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but before he can get a word in, Peter pipes up with, “Gerard,” and Stiles slumps sullenly.

When he looks back at his dad, John has a wry expression. “Claud used to run roughshod over me at times, and there was a reason for it, Stiles.” His gaze flicks to the side, to Peter, for a moment. “I’m not saying that Peter is your Claudia, because if that’s the case, there will be many uncomfortable discussions in both your futures, but I can’t tell you what it feels like, the weight it takes off my mind, to know that there is a _capable_ adult keeping an eye on you during all this werewolf business.”

Stiles can only stare, slack-jawed, as his dad claps him on the shoulder and leaves for work. He’s still staring when Peter sets a plate down in front of him. Then he’s staring at that.

“You _do_ realize that humans do not, as a general rule, eat as much as werewolves, right?”

Peter nods. “I do. But you’re not only a teenage boy, you’re also on medication that causes weight loss as a side effect, and you’re still recovering from blood loss. You need the fuel.” Peter’s tone says _you’re going to eat what’s been put in front of you. Or else_.

And, well. It’s not like it’s a hardship, to eat French toast with scrambled eggs and sliced-up fruit. It’s just supremely weird for him to be eating this much for breakfast when he usually sticks with something that he can throw in the toaster. And to not have coffee. Because Peter’s only letting him have juice.

He groans as he pushes off from the table to get upright. He’d somehow forgotten while eating exactly how much everything hurts.

“You need a bath,” Peter comments, apropos of absolutely nothing.

“Mhm, yeah, would be bad to go to school smelling like you.” He’s heading upstairs slowly. Showering is going to suck so hard, but the hot water might make him move like he’s forty rather than eighty, so it’s worth a shot.

“You’re not going to school, Stiles. Your father already called you in.” Peter sighs at the confused look that gets. “Stiles, it’s Thursday. Rest today, go in tomorrow, and then take the weekend to finish recovering.”

It’s . . . a surprisingly good plan. And if Dad already went to the trouble of phoning the school, then there’s no reason not to take full advantage and spend the day in bed. But that doesn’t explain Peter’s comment. “Why are you telling me to shower if not to wash off the eau de Zombiewolf? And what is _with_ this Concerned Dad shit you’re pulling right now?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Firstly, I told you to take a bath. _Bath_ , not shower, because you overworked the muscles in your legs last night and soaking in the hot water will help. As will the ibuprofen you’re going to take. Secondly: a bath because it’s much easier to keep your stitches dry, and to make sure you don’t accidentally brain yourself.” Peter pauses for a moment, and gives Stiles another one of those discomfiting looks. Stiles is trying not to squirm before Peter breaks the silence. “I have to say, it’s very telling that you’re associating what I’m doing right now with parenting,” he murmurs.

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” Stiles bites out.

“It means,” and suddenly, Peter’s behind him on the stairs, and carrying him up the last few, “that you need me more than I anticipated.”

“I do not need you,” Stiles scoffs. He tries to make each word carry ten times its own weight in contempt as Peter sets him back on his feet.

“Signs point to the contrary.” Peter brushes past Stiles to get to the bathroom, and turns on the water. Which. Oh, hell no.

“You’re not helping me in the tub.” Peter raises a single eyebrow. “You’re _not_. It’s not happening.”

“You can’t raise your left arm,” Peter points out.

“So?”

“So, how do you plan to wash your hair with only one arm without soaking your bandages?”

Stiles doesn’t cuss Peter out. He doesn’t. That would be like admitting Uncle Psycho is right.

But then Peter is there, touching his uninjured shoulder and speaking softly. “Stiles, you terrified your father last night, when he came home to find out that he almost lost you. If you hadn’t run into me in the Preserve, who knows what would have happened.” Stiles feels his throat clog with guilt. “They may not show it particularly well, but you have people who care about you. There’s no shame in needing help while you recover.” The entire time he’s speaking, Peter’s unwinding the ace bandage from around Stiles’s torso. He pulls the drawstring of Stiles’s pajama pants loose. And then he waits.

Stiles closes his eyes, and silently runs through his options.

Option 1: Kick Peter out, and try to muddle through the next few days on his own. Likely outcome: ripped stitches, possible infection. Option 2: Kick Peter out, try and rope someone else into helping him. Candidates: Dad, Scott, Allison, Chris, Isaac. Likely outcome: maximum embarrassment per minute of care with Allison, Isaac or Chris, and extreme guilt with Dad or Scott. Option 3: Accept Peter’s help. Likely outcome: shortened recovery, contact rash from prolonged exposure to smugness, having to deal with Peter’s inevitable hidden agenda.

He shoves his pajamas off his hips, and clambers awkwardly into the bath. He closes his eyes, expecting pithy, stinging remarks, but none come. Instead, Peter just hands him a washcloth loaded with his body wash and sits on the floor by the tub while he scrubs himself down. When he’s done—or as done as he can be, because he’s awkward on the best of days and having to be careful with his left arm isn’t helping matters—Peter takes the cloth from him, soaps it up again, and guides him forward so Peter can do his back and uninjured shoulder.

A fuzzy memory of last night surfaces, of Peter carefully wiping him down. He wonders what all of this is about. What Peter’s endgame is here. With Peter, it pays to be suspicious.

On the other hand, Peter saved him from being monster chow, so it’s not like he isn’t benefitting from whatever scheme Peter’s cooking up.

But then Peter’s wetting his hair, fingertips kneading his scalp, and thinking becomes impossible.

 

***

 

Peter hums quietly, an old werewolf lullaby, as he works the shampoo through Stiles’s hair. The boy is putty under his hands, and it’s making his chest go tight. He’s careful as he rinses it out, ensuring he doesn’t soak through the gauze dressing.

He doesn’t resist the urge to pat the boy dry after. Stiles doesn’t protest, too out of it from the combination of hot water and blood loss. Peter steadies him while he pulls on a fresh pair of boxers, and then scrubs the towel over Stiles’s thick hair. He combs his fingers through it after, bringing order to the towel-mussed strands. If he’s also leaving his scent behind, it’s just a hazard of the job.

Stiles is silent throughout, meekly taking the ibuprofen and water that Peter hands him. He doesn’t speak until Peter’s got him stretched out on his bed, on top of the covers. “Why ‘m I on the bed instead of in it?”

Peter sits carefully, and pulls one of the boy’s legs into his lap. “Because I’m checking on your strained muscles before you go back to sleep,” he responds. He doesn’t look at Stiles, too preoccupied with running his hands over the slender leg in his lap. There isn’t any visible bruising or swelling, but the muscle is clearly tender. The boy will need to rest for a few days to avoid making it worse. He’ll need to talk to John about providing a note for Stiles’s lacrosse coach.

“Uh, dude, could you gimme back my leg now?”

Peter looks at him, and then deliberately digs the heel of his hand into the boy’s calf. He smirks when Stiles gives a little moan. “Oo-okay, if you’re gonna do that, you can keep it. Possibly forever.” Peter carefully tamps down on the response he wants to give, kneading the overworked muscles instead. Stiles for his part, lies pliant and appreciative. Until Peter’s hands move to his thigh. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?”

“Exactly what I’ve been doing—trying to help you.” He maintains eye contact while he says it, and doesn’t move his hands from where they cup the soft, vulnerable skin of Stiles’s thigh.

Stiles stares for a minute, his heartbeat erratic, before he responds. “No funny business.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Have you never had someone do this for you, Stiles?”

“If they have, it’s been so long that I don’t remember.” Peter looks at him in time to see him shrug. “Scott and I weren’t particularly athletic before he got the werewolf upgrade, and after that, well. He heals fast enough to never really need anything like this, and even if he did, he’s got Allison for that.”

“No one else in the pack has done this for you? Have they offered?” Peter fights to keep his composure. If he shows his anger now, Stiles will realize how openly vulnerable he’s being—and promptly clam up. He focusses on gently working Stiles’s hamstrings.

“Nah. I mean, I wouldn’t expect them too, y’know? Erica and Boyd have each other, and both of them are willing and able to snap me in half if they think I’m putting on the moves. Isaac might if I asked, but I’d never hear the end of it from either Scott or Derek if I did. And like hell am I going to ask _Derek_ —he’d refuse with his eyebrows and probably shove me against the wall for good measure.”

Peter lets his fangs drop behind closed lips, saying nothing as he starts on Stiles’s other leg. He already knew that the boy was usually patched up by Melissa or Deaton after being injured in a supernatural scuffle, but he’d thought that the pack was offering him support while he recovered. It was the least they could do for an injured packmate. Especially when said packmate was human.

Although . . . “Scott, at least, must check up on you when you’re healing.” It’s a statement inflected like a question, and Stiles takes the bait.

“Yeah, it always makes Scott feel better to hear me tell him that I’m fine half a dozen times.”

Peter is able to make a number of inferences from that statement. First: Scott is a miserable werewolf if he believes his friend’s lies instead of what his senses are telling him. Second: Scott is the only one to actually follow up on Stiles’s injuries and well-being. Third: Derek is a terrible Alpha if he doesn’t care about an asset like Stiles—at least enough to ensure that he’s _actually_ alright after participating in things he should steer clear of. Fourth: Derek is utterly _useless_ as an Alpha if his pack doesn’t actually treat each other like pack—scenting and touching and supporting each other.

The anger sizzling in his gut is worsened by the way Stiles allows him to prop up the boy’s legs and tuck him into bed, already half-asleep. Peter will be having words with the pack at the meeting tonight.

 

***

 

Scott is paying enough attention to notice that Stiles’s approaching heartbeat is accompanied by a second heartbeat, and he wonders who Stiles might be arriving with. He looks around the room, but sees everyone already here, so . . . his dad, maybe? But why would the Sheriff come with Stiles to a pack meeting?

When they both come through the door, Scott fights not to shift. Because _Peter Hale_ is helping Stiles inside with an arm wrapped around his best friend’s waist and Stiles’s arm over his shoulder. “What the fuck?” He can’t help the way he growls.

Peter glances at him. “Control yourself.” And then he turns away like Scott isn’t even there, and settles Stiles next to him on Derek’s couch.

So Scott goes right to the source. “Stiles, what the hell, man?”

He can’t help the shock he feels when Stiles replies with, “He’s been helping me.”

“If you needed help, why didn’t you call _me_?”

The look Peter gives him is sharp. “He _did_ , Scott. You didn’t answer.”

And, well. Now he feels like an asshole. “Stiles, I’m sorry, it’s just, I was having dinner with Allison and Chris, and turned my phone—”

“—and it’s touching, really, that your little huntress is more important than your best friend’s life,” Peter bites out. His eyes flash, and Scott’s not the only one who starts to worry at that. For all that Peter’s a creep and a psycho, his control is usually impeccable.

“I mean, you seem okay now, though?” But, well. A good look at Stiles isn’t exactly reassuring. He seems exhausted, and he’s leaning against Peter way more than is strictly necessary.

“No, Scott, he isn’t. If he were okay, he’d be able to walk up the stairs unassisted and wouldn’t have seven stitches in his left shoulder.”

Scott swallows his indignation, because that is way more serious than he expected. Stiles doesn’t seem that bad, although the way he’s keeping one hand in the pocket of his hoodie makes more sense. But for all that Scott kinda hopes Peter’s exaggerating, the shame colouring Stiles’s cheeks and tingeing the air marks it as true.

“Peter—”

“—no, Stiles. They deserve to know what shape you’re in because your best friend wasn’t there when you needed him. They also need to know what they’re going up against,” Peter interrupts. And, for all that he’s talking to Stiles, he’s staring intently at the rest of the pack.

It’s making them uneasy.

“If you’re done giving everyone a hard time, maybe you could move on to telling us what happened.” Derek sounds about as impressed with Peter as Scott is, and it’s nice to know that he’s not the only one.

But Peter just narrows his eyes at them. “Isaac, could you please help Stiles down to the Jeep? I don’t think he needs to be here for this.”

Isaac nods and moves to help hoist Stiles off the couch. Scott watches, feeling a little betrayed. “Isaac!”

He’s not prepared for the hard expression on Isaac’s face. “Scott, Peter has a point. Look at him—and I mean _really_ look. He’s no good for anything right now.” 

Scott stares, his mouth hanging open, as Isaac supports Stiles the same way Peter had. He listens as they get to the stairs outside the loft, and Isaac says, “Jesus, just—”

“’m not a damsel you know,” Stiles mutters.

Before he can hear whatever Isaac says to that, Peter is rising smoothly from the couch. He looks furious. “I was out patrolling in the Preserve last night when Stiles literally ran into me. I have no idea how long he’d been running, only that it was long enough to make him shaky and stupid with adrenaline and blood loss. His description of what he was running from was ‘dinosaur thing’ which, while woefully vague, is also fundamentally correct. I have no idea what precisely tore his shoulder open, but I would very much like it dead.” Peter relays the important information brusquely, as if it wasn’t all that important.

Derek nods. “Okay, we’ll need Stiles to—”

“Stiles isn’t doing anything for you.” Scott feels like a cartoon character, his eyes bugging out in disbelief at Peter’s statement. He’s not the only one.

Derek scowls, his eyes flashing. “Peter that’s not your—”

“Your mother would be so disappointed in you, Derek.” Peter’s voice is low and ugly. “You know better.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Erica asks hotly. She’s the quickest to anger, always spoiling for a fight. Normally Scott can’t stand that about her, but right now, he has to agree.

“My _problem_ ,” Peter begins, his eyes killer blue, “is that you call Stiles pack so you can demand things from him, so he’ll do what you want, but you don’t treat him as pack.”

Derek stills, and swallows audibly in the ensuing silence. Once again, Erica is the one to speak, but this time, she’s subdued—her voice uncharacteristically small. “What does that mean?”

“It _means_ ,” and Peter’s snarling now, his fangs sliding free from his gums, and Scott is not imagining the fear flooding the room, “that you treat him like a resource, while calling him pack to get out of compensating him the way you would a resource. It means that none of you bother to follow up when he’s been injured. It means that, aside from Scott, none of you do more than tolerate him. Pack is supposed to be family, but none of you care about that boy as a person.”

Peter starts to pace as he pulls back his shift. But his words are even sharper than his claws. “When was the last time any of you scented him? Spent time with him outside of school or the latest crisis? You want him to be your researcher, your planner, your getaway driver, your in with the Sheriff’s department—but what do any of you offer him in exchange? He can’t even rely on you to protect him!”

Scott’s guts feel cold and twisted. Derek is white as a sheet under his stubble, and even Erica seems subdued. “That’s not fair, Peter,” Derek says quietly. “I’ve done what I could to protect him, and Scott is his best friend, but he’s still adjusting to the change, and Stiles isn’t—”

“ _Excuses_ ,” Peter hisses. The man hadn’t seemed this unhinged when he was _actually_ unhinged. Peter’s narrowed gaze connects with each of them in turn. “The boy all but melted under a few friendly touches from me. You know what that tells me? That he’s about a hair’s breadth from touch-starved. Disregarding for the moment what that will do to him specifically, that is _not_ the way a pack is meant to interact.” That bit seems directed specifically at Derek, and dude couldn’t look more gut-punched if Peter had actually punched him.

But as awful as Peter’s been so far, he’s not done yet. “So, if you’re going to treat him like a resource, you’re going to do it properly. No more threatening him to make him obey. No more dragging him out into the middle of the fight, no more showing up unannounced, no more hauling him out of bed for no good reason, and absolutely no more ignoring his phone calls. And, most importantly, if you want him to do something for you, you find a way to pay him for the favour.” And then Peter is pinning Scott in place with a look that sends chills down his spine. “Do I make myself clear?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead making eye contact with each of them once more before prowling out. Isaac slips back in as Peter leaves, and Scott tries to lighten the mood with a wobbly smile. “Dude, you are so lucky you weren’t here for that. Talk about an ass-chewing.”

“Werewolf hearing,” Isaac reminds him. His eyes are big and serious. “He’s right, Scott.”

Scott thinks he might be sick.

 

***

 

Stiles curls up in the passenger seat of the Jeep, closing his eyes. He really shouldn’t have let Peter blab about the results of his run-in with the cracktor, but it was kind of nice to have someone acknowledge that he’s human and doesn’t heal instantly. He definitely shouldn’t have left with Isaac. Not when he knew that Peter was going to flip shit on Scott and Derek.

But in a way, he’s kind of relieved. Peter didn’t tell him he was planning this, but Stiles just _knows_ that the pack won’t be asking anything of him for the next while. And, even if they do, Peter’ll tell them to fuck off. He’ll actually get a chance to stop and breathe and _heal_ before anyone expects him to perform amazing feats. It’s nothing he’s had and everything he’s wanted since Scott was turned.

And yeah, okay. He really, really shouldn’t let Peter take over like this, but he can’t deny that it’s given him the breathing room he so desperately needs. So maybe it’s okay. Just for a little while. Just until he’s healed and can think about Derek and werewolves and the pack without wanting to hyperventilate.

It’s not like Peter’s going to stick around past that, anyway. Not once he realizes that Stiles can’t give him whatever it is he’s after.

 

***

 

John was wary at first. He had every reason to be. But it’s been three months now since he came home to find Peter Hale watching over his injured son, and he’s more grateful by the day that he didn’t give in and shoot Hale then and there.

Because Stiles hasn’t been injured since that night. He’s still part of the pack, still researches for them and occasionally gets more involved, but in small ways. Ways that make John worry less about losing his son. Stiles seems almost stable. Not as tired, or as highly-strung. He’s actually sleeping, now, and isn’t quite as thin as he was. Even more miraculous, John actually knows what’s going on his town, thanks to Peter’s willingness to pass along information.

And all it took was for Peter to become a fixture in their house. John never thought he’d be thankful for a murderous middle-aged werewolf, but he’s happy to be proved wrong.

 

***

 

Peter studies Stiles across the chessboard and reminds himself to be patient. He’s so close to having what he wants. He just needs to wait a little longer. He lets his eyes rove hungrily over Stiles’s face while the boy contemplates his next move, thinking, _it’s almost a pity he doesn’t realize he’s already lost._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title for Chapter 2 taken from Evanescence's 'Surrender'.


	3. I Get You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Never mind that no one's ever wanted him that way before, so desperately that they'd take anything they could get. That’s just. It’s ridiculous, is what it is. But Peter's staring at him with naked hunger, with what Stiles now sees as a barely-restrained desire to touch—in all the ways Peter hasn’t touched him. Yet. "That should not be attractive," he says in a breathy rush._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks/blame, as always, go to BelleAmante and DenaCeleste for the pre-reading and cheerleading, as well as enabling what is a truly _shocking_ amount of filthy porn. Like, seriously, people, check out the updated tags. 
> 
> There are also some additional warnings in the end notes, if anything you see up there worries you. I should state right out front that the sex you will find below is very unsafe unless you're fucking a werewolf (if you are, I'm jealous) and that, because Stiles and Peter's ages are ambiguous, this might have an underage feel to it. If that bothers you, feel free to interpret this as happening in boy's final year of high school, after he turns 18.

 

Peter could howl, he’s so close to victory. Any day now, the last piece will fall into place.

When it does is up to Stiles.

 

***

 

The day it hits him is a day like any other in this strange new version of normal. He’s home after lacrosse practise, and rather than working through his pile of Physics homework, he’s perched on the end of his bed while Peter sits behind him, massaging his shoulder.

 _This should be weird_ , he thinks. _It’s weird that it’s **not** weird_.  When did he get so used to having Peter around? And why is Peter around enough for Stiles to get used to him?

"Why are you doing this?" he asks quietly.

Peter doesn't pause in his ministrations. "Because you nearly tore a ligament holding Scott back at practise today."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. What are you doing here, Peter? What are you doing with me?" He gets up, putting space between them so he can look Peter in the eye. “I didn’t question it before, but everything you’ve done for the last—Jesus, three and a half months—has been so unlike you I’m amazed I didn’t call you on it before now.” He rakes a hand through his hair, growing more and more agitated. “You’re always around, and I don’t get it! What are you after? What could you possibly stand to gain by making sure I eat and sleep, and don’t even get me started on the way you put your paws all over me when I’m sick or hurt, or all the time you spend with my Da—” horror washes over him as he hits on the likely answer. “Is that what this is about? Are you trying to cozy up to my Dad? Get the Sheriff on your side?”

It looks for a minute like Peter’s going to give a typical sarcastic non-answer, but then he pauses. His expression turns unexpectedly serious. "I told you right from the beginning: I like you Stiles. Always have. I've always wanted you. However I could have you."

Stiles pauses, needing a few seconds to process that. Peter’s never sounded this candid, not even when he was trying to convince Stiles to accept the Bite. Never mind that no one's ever wanted him that way before, so desperately that they'd take anything they could get. That’s just. It’s ridiculous, is what it is. But Peter's staring at him with naked hunger, with what Stiles now sees as a barely-restrained desire to touch—in all the ways Peter _hasn’t_ touched him. Yet. "That should not be attractive," he says in a breathy rush. And then he's closing the distance between them to cup Peter's face and attack lips that welcome him with a deep groan.

Peter reaches up, cups the back of his neck, and pulls him down until he’s straddling the older man’s lap, his arms wrapped around unfairly muscled shoulders. He hovers a little, trying to support his own weight and keep the evidence of his growing arousal a little less obvious, but Peter makes that a lost cause, gripping his ass and hauling Stiles closer. He breaks away from Peter’s mouth to gasp, and Peter seizes the opportunity to kiss and suck at his throat. His hips lurch when Peter’s teeth close around a tendon, but before he can feel self-conscious about rubbing his dick against Peter’s abs, the big hands on his ass are encouraging him to grind, to shamelessly chase his pleasure. When his dick only makes brief, hesitant contact, Peter bites again. Hard enough that Stiles makes a needy little “ah” sound as his hips judder.

“So perfect for me,” Peter mumbles. He continues to suck and bite, less gently than before, and every time teeth close around part of Stiles’s fragile neck, he can’t help rocking forward—into Peter’s teeth and body, into the bright sparks of sensation that flash through him when his cock rubs against the werewolf’s body. The only thing that could possibly make this better is if he had bare skin under his hands.

And either Peter read his mind, or Stiles said that out loud, because the next thing he knows, Peter’s pulling back and grasping the hem of his shirt. Only, instead of baring glorious were-flesh for Stiles’s grabby hands, he pulls off _Stiles’s_ shirt instead. Stiles squirms in a distinctly non-sexy way, but Peter gives him a heated look. It’s vaguely predatory, and he stills instinctually, heart taking off in something that isn’t even close to fear.

Peter holds eye contact while he slides his hands up from Stiles’s ass. One stops in the cradle of his lower back, while the other travels up until it’s tangling in his hair. Peter uses his grip—insistent, but not truly painful—to force Stiles’s head back, and back, until he has to trust Peter not to let him fall.

Stiles pants, the enforced vulnerability making him leak in his boxers. His hands clench and release where they’re braced on Peter’s shoulders, and he wonders how much of this he can stand before he snaps.

Peter leans in to nip at his collarbone. “I want all of you, Stiles. All of your beauty, and every twisted piece of ugliness. All your pleasure, your pain, your every whimper and tremble and choked-off moan. _All of it_.” Peter licks over the pulse beating—no doubt visibly—in his throat. “You’re not allowed to hide from me.” The growl is accompanied by the flash of electric blue eyes, and Stiles shivers.

Then Peter’s mouth latches onto a nipple, and he lets out a low, wavering moan. He didn’t know he was this sensitive. Every harsh suck and scrape of teeth is going straight to his cock. He lets go, moaning like a whore as he clutches Peter’s head to his chest and rabbits his hips, incapable of doing anything else. Peter makes a hungry, pleased noise, biting down hard—and as the tips of Peter’s fangs dig bruises into the skin around his nipple, Stiles comes, going boneless.

Peter gathers him close, nearly purring while brushing soft, closed-mouth kisses along Stiles’s neck and shoulder. “Good boy,” he breathes, and Stiles can’t even pretend that hearing that doesn’t make him twitch in his sticky boxers. He’s a teenager, and has the recovery time of one, but even he can’t go again so soon.

But then Peter says, “That’s my perfect boy, letting me mark you up and take the edge off so we can _really_ play,” and Stiles isn’t so sure. He tries to squirm free so he can wash up and change, but Peter’s grip turns hard. “Stay.” There’s no mistaking it for anything but a command, and Stiles can feel the sub-vocal rumbling vibrate through his body where he’s pressed against Peter.

He lets Peter manhandle him onto the bed, and helpfully lifts his hips when Peter tugs his jeans and boxers down. But then he’s naked, and Peter’s still clothed, and if they hadn’t already had the No Hiding conversation, he’d _definitely_ be trying to run or get under the blankets or hide somehow. The urge is still there regardless, like an itch he can’t scratch, and he fidgets.

Or, he does until Peter pins him down by the hips. He’s not sure what to do with his hands—he _needs_ to hold onto something, but grabbing for the edge of his mattress or the headboard feels like further exposing himself, and, just, no—so he tentatively rests his hands on Peter’s shoulders, ready to snatch them away if that turns out to be a mistake. But rather than the sardonically-quirked eyebrow he’s expecting, he gets a nod of approval.

When Peter swipes a tongue none-too-gently across his come-sticky dick, his barely-there grip becomes an attempted shove. _Attempted_ because Peter refuses to be moved. Stiles makes high-pitched sounds as Peter laves his groin, uncaring of the way every pass of his tongue elicits another whimpered plea.

He tries to buck Peter off, to wriggle away, to speak actual words, but it’s futile. Stiles can only suffer through the icy-hot tingles of pleasure-pain as Peter licks him clean. He thinks that’s it; that Peter will pull away, bizarre task completed, but Peter continues, bathing him with long, sloppy pulls. Stiles is crying a little, breathless and already half-hard, when Peter finally relents.

Peter pulls away, but only far enough to strip and fish lube out of Stiles’s nightstand, and Stiles can’t help the way he goes red right to his hairline. Peter just smirks, but somehow that’s worse than anything the sadistic bastard could say.

He revises that opinion when Peter rasps, “I’m gonna fill you up so perfectly, baby,” while warming the lube in an outrageously obscene fashion. Is it _really_ necessary to coat his fingers so profusely that they make dirty slick sounds?

He’s so distracted by the sight of those thick fingers slipping and rubbing together, glistening in the muted sunlight seeping in through the blinds, that it takes a minute for what Peter said to sink in. When it does, his breath hitches, eyes darting to Peter’s face. His heart starts pounding as he wonders if Peter means what Stiles thinks he means. If that’s something he wants Peter to do to him.

When the first digit slips into him easily, feeling so much bigger than his own ever have, Stiles thinks, _yeah_. This is something he could want.

Peter stretches him out—with one finger, then two, three, an agonizing _four_ —for what feels like forever. Until he’s fully hard and desperate to come again, until his ass feels wet and sloppy from the lube Peter’s been more than generous with. Peter drags his fingers out slowly, playing with Stiles’s rim along the way, and he can’t help the way he keens. He feels like a slut, desperate for Peter’s cock and so empty it _hurts_. His legs are thrown wide and his hips tipped up to entice Peter to get in him already, but he’s starting to wonder if dude needs a special invitation.

But when he opens his mouth to say as much, nothing comes out. Or, well, nothing coherent, anyway, because Peter bent down to lap up the pre-come he’s leaked with teeny little kitten licks, and if he wasn’t so desperate to have something inside him _right the fuck now_ , he’d probably come from that. So, since words aren’t happening, he grips Peter’s hair, trying to put distance between his dick and that tongue, but all he manages to do is make Peter look at him with a mildly annoyed expression, like he’s interrupting something important.

But after a good look at his face, Peter seems to understand. He pulls away, and runs the backs of his clean fingers down Stiles’s cheek. “It’s alright, sweet boy. I’ll give you what you need. You just have to take it.”

And Stiles is nodding, unable to speak past the wave of probably-inappropriate emotion that crashed into him with those words. But it’s okay, because Peter’s settling back on his heels before guiding Stiles’s legs around his waist, wedging his knees under Stiles’s lower back and hauling not-quite-virgin hips onto his lap. He squeezes Peter’s ribs between his knees, and Peter pets the underside of one thigh reassuringly.

But, even though he wants this—and, _god_ , how much does he want this—he can’t help the stutter in his breathing, the way he feels a little afraid when the tip of Peter’s cock nudges at his loosened rim. “Look at me, baby,” Peter rumbles. Stiles obeys. “I’m going to make this so, so good for you,” Peter promises, inching forwards. Enough that his cock is starting to ease inside. “You won’t believe how good it’ll feel,” he murmurs, and Stiles lets out a breathy sound as the head of Peter’s cock slips in all the way, “letting me split you open and carve out a space that’s all mine inside your sweet little body.”

And then Peter’s sliding all the way home, and it’s . . . it’s _so much_. Not just pleasure, because if it was, he’d have come from the force of it. It’s also the empty ache being replaced by the pulling not-pain of being filled, and how exposed he feels with his ass in Peter’s lap and his shoulders on the bed and Peter _inside his body_. He’s never been this naked in his life.

And then Peter starts to move, giving dirty little rolls of his hips, and Stiles can’t process that. He can’t think past the concept that there’s _another person_ in him, that _Peter Hale’s_ cock is burning inside him in the best way, that it feels _this amazing_. So overwhelming, so all-consuming that he might die from this, but he doesn’t mind, because every second will have been worth it.

He’s panting and gasping, never seeming to get enough air in his lungs to say anything. He can only lie there, drunk on sensation as Peter thrusts languidly, the smooth glide of his cock in and out of Stiles’s wrecked ass the best thing he’s ever experienced. But then Peter grips his thighs, holding him at a different angle, and suddenly he has to re-evaluate. Because now Peter’s bumping into and dragging over his prostate, and it’s so different, so much more intense than anything he’s felt before.

“You’re going to come, just like this,” Peter growls. He doesn’t know if he can. He shakes his head. Peter starts pumping his hips faster, and Stiles nearly shouts. “You _are_. You’re going to come on my cock like a good boy, Stiles, because I want you to.”

And hearing Peter tell him that he’s going to do it—it’s not a question, it’s not a request, it’s a statement of _fact_ —tips him over the edge, and he comes without touching his dick for the first time in his life.

Things get a little fuzzy after that, hazy-warm and syrup-slow. He knows that Peter stays close after coming and doesn’t immediately pull out, but what happens between then and when they’re in the shower is more feeling than memory.

(Stiles will never forget that shower, though—he doesn’t think it’d be possible to forget the feel of Peter’s hands, slippery with soap, touching him everywhere. The way Peter had told him to be good, and let Peter clean him up. The way he’d felt so _surrounded_ , his back against that broad chest inside the cramped stall. The _yes-no-maybe?-yes-too-much!_ feeling of Peter’s fingers on his dick and in his ass, washing away their come.)

 

***

 

He doesn’t know why he thought Scott would be reasonable about this. But—for some unknowable reason—he’d hoped. Maybe it was the way he’d been acting like a functional human being lately, rather than a twitter-pated airhead.

But this? This is not Functional Human Being territory.

“Hands off, Scott, Jesus. I’m not going to smell any different the sixth time than I did the first five.” He slaps at Scott’s hands irritably, glad that this is happening after school, when most of the student body has already run for freedom. Scott reluctantly steps back, face more concerned than apologetic.

“I just, I don’t get it. Why would you have sex with Peter Hale?”

And Stiles . . . he may lose it a little bit, hearing that. “What are you actually asking, Scott? Is it why Peter specifically, or why anyone would want to have sex with me? Or,” his voice drops in volume, turns low and cutting, “is it why I would say yes?”

Scott flounders, looking hurt. “I—no—all of them, but not—the last one.”

Righteous indignation fills him, makes him stand tall and speak in quiet, clipped tones. “One: you are not the only person around here allowed to have werewolf-enhanced sex. Two: you might not like him, Scott, but you have eyes. The man is objectively gorgeous. Three: I know you’re determined not to see it, but Peter has been so, _so_ good to me.” Scott opens his mouth to protest and just, no. “Peter is _there_ , Scott. I can count on him to be there when I need something. Even if that something is as trivial as someone to listen to me while I think out loud. Which leads me to my final, and most important point—why would I turn him down when he’s there for me, hot, and _wants_ me?”

“There are other—”

Stiles cuts him off with a humourless laugh. “What others, Scott? Am I supposed to turn down a fantastic offer because you think I should wait around for a better one? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but no one else is cluing in to how awesome I am.” Realization settles, small and cold, in his gut. “Not even you.”

He shakes himself, pulls back. Doesn’t accept the apology lurking in Scott’s eyes. “However you feel about it, it’s not your decision to make.” He tries not to feel bitter or unburdened as he walks away.

 

***

 

Peter lets them all have their say. He lets them try to convince Stiles to get away from him, that he’s evil, that Stiles is nothing more than a pawn. He lets them fling their accusations, lets them question Stiles’s judgement and intelligence and choices, and says nothing in his defense. He doesn’t need to.

Because none of them seem to realize that they’re only driving Stiles away from them—and right into Peter’s waiting arms.

(It helps that Peter has John on-side. Though the good Sheriff is blissfully unaware of the most recent development, and Peter plans to keep it that way.)

Still, he waits. Gives Stiles a couple months to choose him, to fight with Scott and the others over it, to get attached. To come out to his father, make a friend or two outside the pack, and settle in his skin.

Peter also makes sure that his boy gets very, very used to—and comfortable with—having sex. With owning his neediness, and asking for what he wants in bed. Stiles hasn’t quite grown into the realization that he’s got a submissive streak a mile wide, but that’s alright. Peter will get him there.

For the moment, it’s enough that Peter can tell his boy to clean himself _thoroughly_ and he’ll scamper off to do just that.  

Peter palms his half-hard cock idly while he waits, thinking of the blush that stained those male-dotted cheeks, the eagerness Stiles didn’t even try to hide. Oh, the things he’s going to do to that boy. All his waiting is finally paying off.

He gives a predator’s smile when his boy returns, a towel wrapped around his waist. Stiles pauses for a moment, heartbeat skipping, before locking his door and hanging the towel over the back of his desk chair. Peter lets his eyes rove, taking in the creamy skin stretched over Stiles’s lean frame, noting the way his boy’s hands squeeze at his sides. “Good boy,” he coos. He knows it’s been hard for Stiles, learning to let Peter look his fill. He smirks when the praise makes his boy’s cock twitch.

“Come here, darling,” he murmurs, and feels satisfaction blossom heavy and warm when Stiles immediately obeys. He runs a hand gently down his boy’s flank, admiring the fingertip bruises along the slender hips and thighs. He leans down to kiss them, and Stiles twitches again, blood starting to pool in reaction to Peter’s mouth hovering so close to his dick.

Peter smirks at his boy, then moves to grip the bubble butt he’s grown so fond of. Stiles’s breath stutters, but he holds still, letting Peter do what he wants. Peter decides he needs to encourage that behaviour, and takes his boy’s half-hard cock into his mouth. He suckles gently, stroking his tongue along the underside, revelling in the taste as much as the scent of lust and the way his boy’s hands clutch at his shoulders.

When Stiles is fully hard, he pulls back with a lewd slurp. He learned early on that his boy reacts beautifully to auditory stimuli, and uses that knowledge at every possible opportunity. “On the bed, baby.”

Stiles brushes his cheek with a hand, nods, and then “assumes the position”, as he calls it. Peter tucks a pillow under his tummy before guiding him to lay flat. As much as he loves having his boy on all-fours, he has something else in mind today.

He pets over Stiles’s lower back, hips, ass—soothing motions—until his boy smells of nothing but contentment and lazy arousal. Then he parts the lush cheeks, and licks a stripe across Stiles’s rim. He grins at the strangled shout the boy gives, and then does it again.

It doesn’t take long for the little opening to loosen under the attention, soft as it is from the hot water and frequent applications of Peter’s fingers and cock. He hums, pleased, and flicks his tongue inside. Stiles squeaks and tries to buck back, but Peter has him firmly pinned. They haven’t done this before, and Peter fully expects his boy to feel a tad overwhelmed. It’s quite the sensation, being tongue-fucked.

Peter takes his time, lapping in soft, broad strokes that are little more than a tease before starting to work his boy over seriously. He flicks his tongue against his bottom teeth, letting the tip slap against Stiles’s skin in a way that he knows will set the boy’s nerve endings on fire. He doesn’t stop until Stiles is begging, muscles rippling as he tries to grind against the pillow under him. Then and only then does he ease inside as deep as he can go.

Stiles whines, shaking. His hands are fisted in the sheets, because as much as Peter likes those long fingers grasping at his hair and shoulders, Stiles knows better than to get grabby when he’s being worked open. His ass belongs to Peter.

It’s why Peter rewards him, sucking on his rim and flexing the tongue buried inside him. Stiles clenches, closer to coming than he realizes. Peter can smell it on him, can hear the way his blood is rushing as his pulse spikes. This isn’t quite what he’d planned, but the temptation to make his boy come from nothing more than a tongue in his ass is too delicious to resist.

So he fucks Stiles faster, undulating against the boy’s insides as he lets his fangs drop. They scrape against Stiles’s tender skin, a sharp sensation that pushes him the smallest bit higher, and into orgasm. Peter gentles him through it before pulling back.

He tugs his shirt off, and uses it to wipe his face before skinning out of his jeans and underwear. Slicking his fingers, he pushes two into his boy right away. Stiles whimpers, oversensitive, but tilts his hips up. Peter stretches him quickly, grateful that he’s relaxed from coming and used to being filled by now, because Peter’s patience has been pushed to its limit.

He’s still thorough, because the last thing he wants is to hurt his boy that way, but it feels like far too long before he’s watching himself sink into his lover’s delicate body. He groans when he’s fully sheathed, as deep in his boy as he can go, and takes a moment to luxuriate in how good it feels. He’s broken from his contemplation of bliss by Stiles.

“Here, let me—” he pants, struggling to get up on his knees and elbows. Peter snarls, and pushes him back down. “Peter, please, I can—I can help—” Stiles breaks off with a wordless moan as Peter pulls back only to snap his hips forward.

Peter thinks that’s the end of it, that his boy will get the message— _stay where I put you_ —but it’s Stiles, so of course it’s not. When he tries to get his limbs under him again, Peter plants one hand between his shoulder blades and pins him to the bed, fucking into him ruthlessly.

Peter can smell the salt of his boy’s tears, knows that the relentless pounding of his cock in and out of Stiles’s young body is as much torture as it is bliss, but even that doesn’t stop his boy. “Peter, lemme—ha—make it good f-for y—”

Peter drops down, crushing Stiles under his weight as he snakes his arms under them to grip his boy’s shoulders. His hips continue to roll as he speaks right into his boy’s ear. “This _is_ good, just like this—where it’s all about me, taking my pleasure from your overworked, spent body.” Peter chuckles at the whine that produces. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Stiles . . . I know how much you enjoy being used, how you love feeling like my personal slut. How desperate you get when I finger you until you gape.” His voice drops into a whisper, then. “I’m going to fuck you raw, baby, so when I bend you over and take your sweet little ass again tomorrow, every drag of my cock will make you scream.”

Peter mouths across Stiles’s skin as his boy shudders under the weight of his promise. The smell of _want_ is so thick he can nearly taste it. He closes his lengthened teeth around the tender place where neck meets shoulder and bites. The sound of his boy’s moan as he pierces flesh, combined with the overwhelming feeling of completeness as the bond snaps into place, sends him crashing over the edge. His orgasm reverberates down the bond, triggering a second—dry—climax in his boy.

He goes limp, pressing Stiles down even further, but his boy doesn’t seem to mind. He pants against the sweat-damp skin, breathing in the smell of sex and Stiles and _mate_. He did it.

Stiles is _his_ , now, in a way that cannot be broken or undone, no matter who disapproves. Stiles is his. His to protect and provide for, to kiss and coddle and fuck. Stiles is his—by Peter’s bite, yes, but also by his own choosing. These last months have proven that.

Peter moves a hand to cup Stiles’s throat, wanting to feel the elevated heartbeat tap against his palm. It’s a heady thing, that Stiles lets him without hesitation or protest, and Peter licks over the bite. Stiles is his mate, his sanity and safety net. Derek and Scott will never move against him now, not when they run the risk of alienating or hurting Stiles. More than that, mated werewolves don’t go feral, even without a pack.

Most importantly, he’ll never be alone again. Stiles can never leave, even if he wanted to.

(But he won’t want to, not once Peter courts him properly. Thoroughly. In a few years, when Peter formally offers to mate-bond, Stiles will jump at the chance. Until then, he just has to be patient. But that won’t be difficult—he has everything he wanted now. Keeping it—keeping _Stiles_ —is a task he’s not only prepared for, it’s one he’ll relish.)

 

***

 

Stiles stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and all he can think is, _I didn’t expect this_.

He fingers the mating bite—and that’s what it is, no question, he’s not the pack researcher for nothing—and can’t help the intense feeling of relief that washes over him. He knows the last thing he should feel is relief, that horror or outrage or even homicidal rage would probably be loads more appropriate, but.

It doesn’t matter anymore, that the pack doesn’t like Peter. That Scott disapproves of them. That dude is objectively awful. None of it matters, because none of those things can take Peter away from him.

Not that he would have let them, but even so. He’ll always be Peter’s, now, and he knows how possessive Peter is. How jealously he guards what belongs to him. How unwaveringly loyal he is to the people and causes he truly cares about.

He can’t even be upset that dog-breath didn’t ask, because he knows he’d have said ‘yes’ in a heartbeat. But he’ll wait, let Peter bring it up. Let the guy stew for a while, before putting him out of his misery. It’s only fair.

(He has someone to belong to, now. Someone who’ll always need him, always want him. There’s no possible way he could ever be upset by that.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 title taken from Two Gallants' 'My Love Won't Wait'. 
> 
> Additional Warnings:  
> There are consent issues with regards to mating bites/bonds, and the giving thereof. Tread carefully if that's something that will bother you. 
> 
> So, there it is, lovelies! The final chapter. I hope you all have had as much fun on this ride as I have, and thank you so much for all the comments and kudos you've sent along the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 title taken from Evanescence's 'October'.


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